Screams and Memories

"The cure is the curse. The beast...might be me." Opening Monologue The whispers from the necklace have grown louder. Not just words now, but visions. Flickers of impossible transformation—skin tearing, bone twisting, eyes burning with a hunger that feels… familiar. A terrible kind of déjà vu I can't shake. This morning, Val asked if I was alright. I said I was just tired. She smiled politely, but I saw the worry in her eyes. She doesn’t know the truth: sleep doesn’t bring rest anymore. It brings visions. Pain. I wake up drenched in sweat, my sheets twisted like they were trying to bind me. And the worst part? My body aches as if I’d been torn apart. My arms feel elongated, stretched like some cruel god of anatomy played tug-of-war with my limbs. My legs throb with a soreness that isn’t from overuse—but from overextension. Something is pulling at me from the inside, like my very form is betraying itself. And when I look in the mirror… I swear my eyes look brig...

Monologue of the Nightly Storyteller There’s something curious about humanity’s obsession with possession—not the demonic kind, though that has its place—but the compulsion to collect. Trinkets, heirlooms, antiques... objects we cling to like charms, as if they tether us to meaning. But not all meaning is benign. I’ve started to wonder: do we own our collections, or do they own us? Take this necklace—cursed or not, it's mine now. I didn’t even realize I was fidgeting with it until Val pointed it out at work. “You polishing it or casting a spell?” she joked, laughter hiding just a hint of concern. I laughed too, but my grip tightened without thinking. She doesn't know about the messages. The last call. The voice that promised I was on my way to becoming… something else. I don’t remember choosing to wear the necklace today. But there it was, warm against my chest. Whispering. Val waved it off with a chuckle. “Relax. It’s just a necklace.” But we both know better. --- ...

 “Mist is more than just vapor. It’s memory, it’s magic, it’s fear made visible. It creeps low to the ground like a whisper you’re not meant to hear. And yet… I listen.” There’s something ancient about mist. Something that refuses to be explained away by science or weather patterns. It hides doorways that shouldn’t exist and moves like it knows more about the world than you ever will. The Nightly Storyteller has always been fascinated by it—but today, it feels personal. 🌫️ The Morning After: Fragments and Fog I woke up with the stale scent of chicken broth and cold rice. An empty takeout container balanced on my nightstand, a small Post-it note stuck to the lid in Val's handwriting: “You didn’t look so good yesterday. Eat this. Sleep. ~V” Val. One of the few people at work who still checks in. One of the even fewer who hasn’t given up on me yet. But it wasn’t just the soup. Next to the empty box was a glass vial—round-bottomed, once sealed, and now cracked open. Just a...

🕯️ Monologue from the Nightly Storyteller 🕯️ Hope is a funny thing. It clings to your bones when everything else starts falling apart. Even when your mind starts betraying you—whispers in the dark, reflections that linger too long, phantom voices trailing behind your thoughts—hope finds a way to speak louder. Or at least... it tries to. I had an appointment with a psychiatrist today. The logical next step, they said. After the specialists, the tests, the x-rays and bloodwork that all scream “normal,” while my body continues to weaken. The voices... louder. The necklace pulses against my chest like it has a heartbeat of its own. The psychiatrist listened. Scribbled. Suggested medication. I nodded, knowing I wouldn’t fill the prescription. On my way home, the radio crackled through a storm warning, and then came the report: > “...coastal construction workers claim a giant serpent-like creature has surfaced from beneath the bridge...” I nearly swerved off the road. Not because of the...